


where light won't chase us

by magicites



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Depression, F/F, Post-Sburb/Sgrub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:28:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicites/pseuds/magicites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the cracks take a while to appear.</p>
<p>(In which Kanaya Maryam says too little for too long.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	where light won't chase us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tamagus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamagus/gifts).



> So my friend Tama wrote me this [amazing Johnkat fic](http://tamalesbians.tumblr.com/post/32802212875), and in return I offered to write her something in return since I liked it so much. She asked for Rose/Kanaya angst involving rainbowdrinking and some other stuff I forgot.
> 
> Normally I'd leave fics like these on my tumblr, but it's something that doesn't involve john and/or Karkat as main characters, and I like to have at least a little variety.

Kanaya Maryam has fallen in love, but she has fallen too far and fallen too hard. She loves with every inch of her body, every part of her soul, but she fears that she may grow attached to the point that, if the people she loves were to break away from her, the leftover pieces would be too small and too scattered to put back together.

Rose is everything she wants, everything that she could have ever dreamed of wanting. She is beautiful and deadly, with a sharp wit and even sharper thorns, ready to tear apart her enemies at a moment’s notice. She was created not to nurture, but to protect and to destroy. She charges straight into fate’s hands, and fights with all her strength when she is forced to dance to music that doesn’t match her own steady tempo.

Kanaya’s never had a problem with light. Her own skin shines in the dark, white reflecting off silver metal the same way the Alternian sun reflected off of every grain of sand in her old desert home.

She’s more than willing to court fire. Warmth has never been her enemy.

.

Rose is secretive. She hides anything dear to her heart away from the world, tucked away behind a sarcastic grin and scores of leather-bound journals that Kanaya only ever saw when she accompanied Rose to help pick them out. Her writing – stories that reflect her innermost desires, characters crafted by her loving hands – are kept in fake compartments inside her dresser that Kanaya only ever found by accident. Even her smiles, true ones sparked by laughter and affection, she keeps hidden behind a daintily placed hand, a mask to keep herself safe.

Rose is so, so afraid of being judged. She is afraid of the things dear to her being taken away, so she never lets them be exposed to the world. She loves, but in a guarded, hesitant way that speaks of the trauma she’s encountered throughout her life.

On a day when Jade whisks Rose away in order to take her to a local coffee shop and chat, Kanaya is cleaning out the clutter accumulated underneath their shared human-style sleeping apparatus (Rose is so, so lonely at night and Kanaya can forgo sopor slime and still function much better than the average troll) when she comes across a small box. It’s carefully folded shut, and curiosity drives her to unfold the flaps and peer inside.

What she finds: three Bunsen burners, two Martini glasses, a stark-white labcoat, fabric worn down by age and falling apart at the seams, and a gray, plush cat donning a pink dress and matching bow.

She folds the box up and puts it away. Some things are not meant to be touched. She understands.

.

Kanaya owns a small topiary store. Her only employee is a friend of Jade’s, a physics major who never quite found a good niche that their Ph. D supported. If she were to have her way, her company would be the world leader in both the garden and fashion industries, a brand name reverently whispered by landscapers and collectors worldwide. Scores of people would woo her with fancy resumes, trying to gain the prestige automatically delivered with her approval.

But she is a Hero of Space, not of Light, and her current store is more than enough to support her and Rose.

Rose does not work. Her life consists of threading stories together on her laptop, only to slam the monitor shut when Kanaya walks by. Half littered knitting projects litter the floor, lavender scraps of yarn disappearing to the far corners of the house to become property of the cat.

She shows no one her stories, not even Kanaya. She gets brushed off with calculated smiles and gentle reassurances that _all it needs is a little more editing, Kanaya, I’ll show it to you some other time._

The time never comes.

.

Tidiness has never been a quality they could accurately possess. Rose leaves a trail of half-finished sweaters and knitting needles, and Kanaya’s sketches for various designs cover the desks. Cleaning is left to chance and sheer irritation, but it is a method that works, however disjointed it is.

Each time the need to restore their home back to a livable state finally arises, it gets harder and harder to get Rose to comply. Teasing complaints give way to tense lines and reluctance, becoming harder and harder until the topic of getting Rose to actually do something becomes a territory that Kanaya can no longer navigate.

She does everything by herself, but it isn’t so bad. She was born to care for others.

.

Rainbow drinker stories all follow the same basic story: a seductive creature of the day seduces a young, unwitting troll and leads them onto the path of deadly light.

Vampires, which are apparently human rainbow drinkers, replace light with darkness. Vampires are creatures of the night, terrifying and sexual.

Kanaya may have the glowing skin and desire to feast on blood from time to time, but Rose is the one who fits the stereotypes better. Sometimes, Kanaya feels as if Rose should have been born a vampire. She would have looked nice in the cape, worn it as a second skin as she led her virginal matesprit down a path of complex emotional issues and sex.

Rose offers Kanaya her blood whenever she gets too hungry. What pumps through her body, keeps her alive, is sweet and warm like the Rose she fell in love with as a young troll still fighting for her life.

They stand in the bathroom together. Kanaya kneels in front of Rose, who offers her a dainty hand. Half of the nails are overgrown, the other half bitten to the bloody quick. Kanaya presses a kiss to every single digit, and makes a mental note to cut her nails later, maybe paint them lavender if Rose will let her.

She kisses the back of her hand and imagines Rose as a queen for a brief moment, but the images flickers and disappears before Kanaya can fully grasp it. Royalty doesn’t suit a girl like her. How can she care for others, when she can barely care for herself?

Kanaya gently turns her hand over, and sinks her teeth into the supple flesh below. Rose makes no move. When Kanaya looks up, she is unable to catch her eye.

Later, as they sleep on opposite sides of their shared bed, inches stretching to lonely miles between their bodies, Kanaya dreams of a cold forest. Rose emerges from the shadows, and stretches out her hand with a smirk and a wink.

Kanaya takes it without hesitation.

She is not in control here.

.

Human romance is generally a strange combination of matespritship and moirallegiance. Human romantic partners tend to be closer than most matesprits, whispering shared secrets in the middle of the night meant for only two pairs of ears. Comfort is in the hands of the partner, not the moirail. ‘My only, my everything’ seems to be a common theme.

Sometimes, when Kanaya stops scurrying around and fussing for the sake of fussing long enough to listen to her own thoughts, she wonders if this much distance is normal for troll matesprits. It isn’t normal in any human partnership, but Rose has never been one for tradition.

She thinks back to the novels she enjoyed when she was young, thinks back to countless movie sessions with Karkat where they cried over the tragic fate of the protagonists.

Matespritship is bright, fiery passion. It is blazing red miles across the universe. Sparks join together, cumulating into an inferno that scorches anyone who tries to tame it.

Her spark died long ago, leaving her quadrant frigid and barren.

.

Rose, who used to be so verbose, so willing to issue out a verbal smack down at the slightest provocation, is silent now. Knitting projects lay abandoned on the floor, across the catch. Memoirs of failed ambitions. Dreams long since lost to reality.

Her computer gathers dust from on top of the dresser.

Kanaya does as she is prone to do: she worries. She worries and fusses and drags Rose out of bed each morning, forces some nice clothing over her head and takes her out to town. She takes Rose everywhere, but her feet drag along the ground and her arms stay limp at her sides.

She sees a bright pink scarf hanging behind a display window, and stares at it for 20 minutes. Her soul seems to disappear, leaving Kanaya with a shell of the girl she loves.

“That’s her scarf,” Rose mutters quietly, shocking Kanaya enough to make her jump.

“Rose, darling, how can it be her scarf?” Kanaya murmurs back. Reassurance was never her strong point, but she can at least try. “I doubt anyone could have obtained hers, even if it somehow managed to escape the battlefield with us.”

Rose shakes her head, solemn and grave. She points to the end of the accessory, lightly curled around a mannequin’s shoulder. “No other scarf has that particular fray.” She struggles out of Kanaya’s grasp and enters the store. A few moments later, she appears in the display window, ignoring the muffled complaints behind her as she gently unwraps the scarf from off of its display model. She walks to Kanaya, and flips it over.

A shaky RL is embroidered into the fabric. Rose’s signature lavender pops against the bubblegum pink background.

They buy the scarf without another word. Rose’s hands shake as she holds the fabric close to her chest, her breathing coming out in erratic gasps.

_It’s ok to cry,_ Kanaya wants to say. _No one will judge you, certainly not I._

Instead, she thinks of the final battle. Of Roxy Lalonde slipping out of Rose’s grasp, completely sure of her ability to slay Lord English.

She thinks of Roxy Lalonde, vaporized to bits as she desperately calls out an alien name to the monster.

She thinks of Rose, who didn’t cry (who still refuses to cry), but instead continued to issue out grim-faced commands.

She thinks of their victory, and how Rose didn’t cry then, either.

She never took the opportunity to mourn.

.

Kanaya reaches out for help the best way she knows how: by consulting the internet. She joins online fourms and copy-pastes the same questions into the text box again and again.

Hello I Am A Jadeblooded Troll And I Require Advice Regarding My Matesprit Of Several Sweeps

She Is A Human That I Greatly Adore

Lately She Has Entered A Lethargic And Depressive State In Which She Has Lost Her Passion For Things She Used To Enjoy Doing

And Um

Basically

I Dont Know What The Fuck To Do

Humans speculate over mental illness. They suggest depression, but Kanaya already knows that Rose is depressed. How could anyone not see that she isn’t happy?

They tell her to take Rose to a doctor and get an official diagnosis.

Trolls advise her to find Rose a moirail.

.

As it turns out, meddling in pale romantic affairs is much more difficult than interfering with flushed and black romantic issues.

.

“Rose, you have an appointment on the 16th,” Kanaya murmurs into Rose’s ears, gently running her hands over her matesprit’s shoulders. Rose grunts and continues to stare, unblinking, at the TV screen. What she sees dancing in the static, Kanaya doesn’t know.

Kanaya falls into an awkward silence, unable to even punctuate it with an ‘um.’

Finally, she settles on finding a half-decent escape route.

“…I’ll go make us some tea.”

.

The 16th arrives much too quickly. Kanaya throws on a simple dress. Rose wears sweatpants and a t-shirt, but Kanaya convinces her to let her do her hair and makeup.

They arrive at the doctor’s office, some general aid facility since apparently they don’t have a primary health physician. She can’t help but compare herself to a few of the frazzled mothers trying to control their children as she fills out Rose’s paperwork for her.

This is not how matespritship is supposed to work, but Kanaya feels the torn remains of her heart freeze when she thinks of ending it.

She signs the paperwork, and returns it to the secretary. They’re called in a few moments later, and Kanaya feels all too old as she rattles off symptom after symptom to the doctor.

Rose sits nearby, staring listlessly at the wall.

The doctor gives them the name of another doctor, one called a therapist.

How ironic, that the old therapist is now the one desperately needing therapy.

.

That night, they sleep in near darkness. Kanaya’s skin emits a gentle glow, though the thick, dark blankets draped across her body smother it. The brightest light comes from her cheekbones, though she doubted it would be enough for a regular human to see.

She feels a gentle prod against her back, and rolls over, curious. Rose stares back at her, eyes wide and rimmed with red.

Kanaya’s arms instinctively wrap around her matesprit, pulling her in and drawing her close to her chest. She twirls a strand of dry, limp hair between her fingers, and rests her chin on top of her head.

“I’m so fucked up,” Rose whispers.

Kanaya cannot disagree.

“Shh, my darling. Sleep now. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Rose’s shoulder shake, but she nods gently and Kanaya can feel her eyelashes flutter against her breastbone.

For how frigid she usually is, her body is still incredibly warm.

Once or twice throughout the night, Rose clings tighter and whispers something against Kanaya’s chest.

It sounds like ‘Mommy,’ but she pretends it’s just nonsense.

.

Rose Lalonde is a broken creature.

But she can be fixed.


End file.
